


The Thing About Travelling

by tetley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetley/pseuds/tetley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minerva McGonagall goes on a trip to the tropics, though she couldn't possibly tell you why. Well, that is, until our intrepid lady traveller finds out that there is more to discover on a journey than what the <strike>bloody</strike> Baedeker tells you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thing About Travelling

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a pinch hit for the 2012/2013 edition of [](http://hoggywartyxmas.livejournal.com/profile)[**hoggywartyxmas**](http://hoggywartyxmas.livejournal.com/). My recipient, [](http://twisted-twister.livejournal.com/profile)[**twisted_twister**](http://twisted-twister.livejournal.com/) had wished for a light-ish how-they-became, and I've wanted to try my hand at her OTP for a while. Even though I am and remain an old-lady/old-lady shipper, I do believe that MM/HG can work under certain circumstances, and I had fun coming up with a scenario. Well, that, and sending Minerva a-travelling, though after this, I doubt that she'd want to be seen dead in a street with me. I thank my intrepid beta, [](http://therealsnape.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://therealsnape.livejournal.com/)**therealsnape** , for managing to slash (tee hee) a path through the word jungle with which I confronted her. So should you.

[ ](http://beta.photobucket.com)

  
  
**Time: September 2020  
** **Place: Somewhere Between the Equator and the Tropic of Capricorn  
** **Temperature: Decidedly Too High**

*

If there was one thing in the world that Minerva McGonagall couldn't abide, it was heat.

"Fool," she muttered under her breath as she walked across a narrow, wooden plank that answered each impact of her sensibly-booted heels with a most untrustworthy bob. "Utter, insensate, pathologically foolish fool."

Come to think of it, she didn't like boats much, either.

And trust her to hit the one single wet patch on an otherwise reasonably spotless deck when she set foot on a vessel that had clearly seen better days.

She could practically hear the chuckle in the deck-hand's voice as she grasped for the railing to regain her balance. "Let me help me with your bag, Madame." He reached for her tartan holdall and then offered her his arm, but she wasn't _that_ helpless, thank you kindly. She might be pushing ninety-five and never have set foot on a West African river carrier, but a Scotswitch and pastor's daughter did not let such trivialities turn her into a damsel in tropical distress.

"Thank you," Minerva snapped, and, on second thought, followed the remark up with a mitigating twitch of her lips.

"No problem, Madame!"

The deck-hand disappeared into the luggage room, and Minerva looked around to find a passably comfortable place for the journey. There weren't many opportunities to sit, given that this was mostly a cargo vessel (the passenger boat had been delayed on account of a hippo situation), and it seemed that she was the only human freight.

She wiped a strand of hair from her forehead. It felt damp, but that was no comparison to the state of her linens.

What _had_ ridden her to come here?

 _Here_ , of all places? When the weather in Lapland was positively lovely this time of year? When the foliage in Canada was currently at its best? When the conference season was about to begin at the International Magical Research Station at the South Pole?

No, she'd _had_ to follow Poppy's advice to go to the _tropics_.

The _West African_ tropics. Where it was hot. Where transport schedules and Heaven knew what could be overthrown by pachyderm. And where they apparently had insects that looked like a lobster's and a gyrocopter's love children. Or so she had interpreted Wilhelmina's shifty answer that, well, yes, insects down there could, on occasion, be "summat a little bigger" than at home.

Well, she thought with a fatalistic sigh, there was nothing to be done about it now. If she was going to spend the next four weeks as the self-bedewing smorgasbord of flying crustaceans, she might as well begin that career with a panoramic view, and so she made her way to the top deck of the _Liberté_ to watch the cargo loading.

Below her, scores of boxes, bales, and sturdy, white sacks with blue print were being carried off board and on board, accompanied by much shouting and gesturing. Some small trade was happening by the pier, and a large, stately woman was settling a disagreement with the captain. It took quite some time until everything was stowed and the woman pacified (it filled Minerva with considerable glee that it appeared that she won), but at last, the captain jumped aboard, and a few minutes later, the _Liberté_ began her journey upstream.

Minerva moved to the front of the ship and looked out on the water. It was surprisingly pleasant there. The breeze on deck mitigated the humidity somewhat, and not a single gyrolobster was yet in sight.

She took a deep breath, but a whiff of diesel made her decide that once was enough for the gesture.

Well.

Had anyone told her three months ago that she'd be taking a four-week retreat in some tropical forest, she'd have declared them barmy. She, Minerva McGonagall, going to a distant land with foreign food, unreliable public transport, and strange religions around every corner, like Sybill, who had heeded the call of her inner goddess or the spirits of the giant trees or whatever, over there in California? Not bloody likely.

She retrieved a fan from one of the various magically-enhanced pockets of her khaki skirt and let her gaze trail along the river banks. They weren't very varied -- overgrown for the most part, lined with shrubs and woods and bushes, and sometimes with trees that grew almost horizontally across the water, as if to see how far they could stretch before having to dip in an aerial root. There were canoes, motor boats, and here or there a pier or an assembly of houses or factories or trading posts. Once, she saw a Muggle aeroplane.

"I am _not_ going to set foot into any means of Muggle air transport," had been her last word of protest after Poppy had vanquished her resistance.

"There'll be no need," Poppy had answered. "Wilhelmina has it all worked out. You'll take a Portkey to the International Keyport at Libreville; from there it's a small series of Apparitions to official tourist coordinates, and then you'll take a boat. Fear not, you shall be arriving in style."

Minerva had heaved one last sigh, but, truth be told (and Poppy had known it), the idea had taken hold. Heat and transport schedules here or there, there was something to be said for a month all for herself and a few new winds around her nose. And the lobstercopters might have spines, but _she_ had a wand.

The diesel engines drummed a steady rhythm as the _Liberté_ slowly trudged ahead, up the river and further and further into the forests. They passed canoes and collapsed trees, villages, and even a small rapid that the captain avoided with ease. Behind them, the sun was beginning to sink, and Minerva watched the flimmering of the mid-day heat give way to a dusty afternoon glow.

She didn't know how long she had stood there, but when they turned around a river bend, she realised that it had to have been at least two hours. Shielding her gaze with her hand, she strained her eyes. Yes, straight ahead -- this had to be it. A clearing with a pier, a few boats, a mast for some Muggle electrical or digital whatnot, and a small assembly of houses. Just like the pictures Poppy had shown her.

The _Liberté_ slowed down and approached the pier. A few children appeared, followed by a woman with short, brownish hair, in a free-flowing tunic and trousers, pink flip-flops on her feet and sunglasses perching atop her head. She, too, shielded her eyes, and when she saw Minerva, she waved.

Still at a safe distance, Minerva allowed herself a small smile.

Hermione Granger, Practical Operations Officer of _Wizards for Technical Cooperation_. An ambitious name for a small, local operation, but if, at this first sight, someone had asked Minerva to bet money on whether it would live up to its name, she would have been prepared to stake a small sum.

They had arrived by the pier. Ropes flew around posts, deck-hands began pulling and gesturing and shouting, and the loading and unloading began anew. Minerva fetched her tartan bag and waited for the plank to be slid across.

Before she could set foot on it, Hermione had jumped aboard and taken the bag.

"Welcome to Doualéné, Professor McGonagall! I hope you had a reasonably tolerable journey?"

"Reasonably," Minerva said.

"You must tell me all about it. Oh, it's wonderful to see you." Hermione's hand squeezed Minerva's, with a firm grip that rather surprised Minerva. Seemed the girl had put on a few muscles. A few stones, too, which suited her well.

"You must be so hot and tired," she rattled on. "Come along, I'll show you your quarters. Water times are six till eight every morning and evening, but I've filled your tank, so you can freshen up to your heart's desiring. Did they let you bring your wand?"

Minerva nodded.

"Fantastic! We've had some trouble with Immigration on that score of late. Understandable, given that _we_ have these terribly Eurocentric restrictions on the import of magical artefacts as well, but there's been some progress on both sides. Anyway, if you have your wand, you can make yourself hot water in no time. There is a hot water faucet, but it's more for decorative purposes."

They walked past various houses, some of which Hermione indicated as "dispensary" -- "dinner hall" -- "store, don't look at me, it's what it's called here" -- "my house, but I'll give you the full tour once you've settled in." At last, they arrived at a long single-floor timber building with a thatched roof and five separate entrances, each with its own terrace shielded by bushes with flowers the size of Minerva's hand.

"Voilà -- our guest quarters." Hermione set down the bag and fished a key from her pocket.

It was dim inside, and, as Minerva gladly noticed, tolerably cool. There were no panes in front of the windows, only mosquito mesh and wooden shutters with gaps just big enough to let in some light. On one side of the room stood a dark wooden day bed with a colourful mattress, an armchair, and a coffee table, while the other side was taken up by a sizeable desk and a bookshelf half-filled with books in English and French. It appeared that the Practical Operations Officer was also in charge of the décor.

"There's a bathroom over here. The shower only works during water hours; at all other times it's bucket-bathing. This faucet here gets its water from a tank on the roof, so make sure you refill it regularly. This handle does it. Open it during water times, then wait until you hear the overflow -- you'll recognise the sound when you hear it -- and close it again. Oh, and here's a pantry." Hermione opened a cabinet in a corner. "No refrigerator and just one gas burner, I'm afraid, but it'll do for tea and small things. Here are some basics like tea and salt and oil and Ginger Newts."

"Why, I appreciate your sense of priorities," Minerva said. "Thank you."

"Well, I'll leave you to yourself now, Professor." Hermione placed the key on the table. "You'll probably want to unpack and rest a bit."

"Yes, to be honest, that would not be unwelcome." Minerva had to admit that the sight of the water faucet and the day bed had filled her with an unspeakable wish to strip out of her damp clothes, wash off the grime, and rest her feet. "Oh, and Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Do use my first name, please, lest you want to be addressed as Officer Granger."

"Very well." Hermione smiled. "Well, if you need anything, just page me with this." She held out a silver coin. "Any time; I mean it. I'm saving you a seat next to mine at dinner; I'll be there at eight. And if you're not too tired, I'd be delighted to show you my roof terrace afterwards. I have gillywater from the Lake District."

"Really? How did that get there?"

Hermione laughed. "Don't tell anybody. My own private extravagance, shipped via Muggle post by my loving daughter. _Totally_ not the done thing, depleting the last oil reserves to get bubbly water from halfway across the planet, but some things are worth being a hypocrite for, and gillywater with a dash of lemon is one of them." Tipping her temple by way of a salute, she left.

When the door had closed behind Hermione, Minerva retrieved her wand from the seam of her skirt. Immigration hadn't really been that kind, but Hermione didn't have to know that Minerva's concealment charms were not merely _theoretically_ superior to any keyport detector. She reinforced the shutters with a non-see-through charm, and then at last, off came the boots (Mount Kilimanjaro's "Old-School Lady Tramp"), the khaki shirtwaist and skirt, and the chemise (sweet Morgana, how had it acquired _that_ colour in there?) Considerably lighter, she headed for the bath.

Ah!

How good it felt to wash off the grime of ten hours and two continents and then let oneself dry _au naturel_. She rummaged around in her bag for a clean chemise, unpacked in a whiff (she never felt she'd fully arrived in a place if she still had her bags packed), and lay down on the bed.

Comfortably stretched out on the mattress, Minerva listened for the sounds of her new abode. The fan made soft, swooshing noises as it revolved lazily around a lamp, and the bed creaked gently when she moved. From outside came the sounds of the nearby forest, and those of children playing and someone hammering. So this would be home for the next month, Minerva thought. Well, one could do worse indeed.

Very much worse indeed.

She took in the scent of the cotton mattress and the wood, and something sweet and flowery that was wafting in from the forest side. Dust danced in the sunrays that came in through the gaps in the shutters.

Little by little, Minerva felt her feet growing lighter and her body pleasantly heavy.

In short, she was arriving.

*

The next morning, Hermione gave Minerva the tour of the compound. When she arrived at nine on the dot, Minerva had already spent a pleasant hour on her terrace, watching the matutinal activities over a cup of tea.

"Good morning!" Hermione called out. "Got your mosquito-repelling charm and your sunscreen on?"

"Yes, Madam."

"Very well. Off we go."

They walked along a path of reddish soil that led them past a schoolhouse. Voices came from inside, and Minerva felt a curious draw to the building. Hermione laughed. "I thought you might consider this the prime attraction. I've arranged with Mme Emele that you can sit in on her lessons whenever you want. She's done a marvellous job here. No literacy or numeracy -- there's an elementary school close by, no need to eat into their business, but she offers prep courses for grammar schools, for students who want to apply for scholarships, and technical instruction, mathematics, economics, ecology and such, to complement the vocational centre run by her son. That's the one over there."

They passed the dispensary, a reccy with football goals on either side, the medicinal herb garden and a small plantation, and on the way, Hermione explained how it had all started.

A few years ago, Angelina Johnson's brother Theo had done a dissertation with Professor Marie Ndong from the Yaoundé Institute for Agriculture and Forestry. Both Squibs, they had long been thinking that it might make sense to bring the Wizarding community into technical cooperation, and one day, on a field trip down coast and up river, they had stumbled upon a half-eroded strip of forest that seemed the perfect location for them to try putting some of their ideas into practice. They brought up the topic at a dinner with a local dignitary, who embraced it with her arms wide open, and thus, a project was born: two years later they had a concept and a contract, and all that remained to be done was to find someone with a talent for fundraising and organising who was willing to live on the spot for a few years. "And this," Hermione said, "was where I came in." Little by little, the whole thing turned out to be a success (with a few setbacks, as they always happened, but nothing that had been insurmountable), and little by little, it had expanded into what it now was.

Minerva and Hermione had circled the compound once, and turning right by the pier, they made their way back towards the schoolhouse. Hermione indicated a tree with a bench.

"It's getting hot; we better leave it at this. Tomorrow I'll show you the anti-erosion project and the hydropower installation."

"The what?"

Hermione grinned and sat down. "I'll explain tomorrow."

She opened a bottle of water and handed it to Minerva.

"Thank you." Minerva accepted gratefully. "You've done well, Hermione. I'm impressed."

"What, with this?" Hermione asked, shaking her head. "None of it is my doing. I'm just ..."

"I take this to be the usual protestations in conversations such as these," Minerva interrupted her, "and they do you credit. But no, I don't mean this. I think you can assess your talents and achievements quite well yourself, and I daresay that the poor, wretched bushman isn't the only one you're uplifting with your activities." She gave Hermione a questioning look across her spectacles. "Is he?"

Hermione laughed. "Very perceptive, and very true."

"Of course it is. We always do these things at least as much for ourselves as for others. Not that I find anything wrong with it, or I'd have to doubt all the years and the lifeblood I have poured into the well-being of other people's offspring. No, I meant the fact that you took the leap to come here. It seems to have done you good." Minerva hesitated briefly, then patted Hermione's hand. "I'm glad you did it."

Hermione smiled. "Thank you." She took the bottle that Minerva handed back to her and brought it to her lips.

"You know," she said, "after the war I really thought that I _wanted_ the life that I'd chosen. Marriage, all the emotional safety of a traditional family, of course without making compromises either as a mother or as a professional. I thought it was the reward for the fighting. And I thought that the bonds we had formed back then would carry us for a lifetime." She shrugged. "Turned out that's not how the world works."

"No," Minerva said. "It rarely is."

Hermione didn't have to know this, or not quite yet, but it hadn't worked like that for Minerva and Rolanda Hooch, either. And hadn't their plans been lofty, after they'd been through so much together during the Grindelwald years. The resistance, the underground messenger service, the grief and the relief when it was all over. Hadn't it only been natural, then, to take a small flat together, with curtains and a double bed and all that? Because wasn't a blissful forever the natural epilogue to stories like theirs? Well, in their case, forever had lasted exactly two years and three months.

Hermione screwed the cap back on the bottle. Wiping her hands on her trousers, she got up from the bench. "Time," she said. "I better get going. Will I see you on my terrace this evening?"

"If I'm not keeping you from anything."

"Absolutely not!"

*

Over the next few days, Minerva set about establishing her routine. She liked a bit of structure, even on her holidays, and she was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was. She woke up at dawn (there wasn't much choice; _everyone_ woke up at dawn) and began the day with a walk. She then had a cup of tea in the dining hall and spent the rest of her mornings exploring. Hermione lived up to her promise to show her the anti-erosion work and the hydropower installation ("Why didn't you _say_ it was a watermill?"), and two mornings were spent in Mme Emele's class.

After a few days of this, however, Minerva felt quite ready to venture out into the wider country. When she brought it up, Hermione insisted on assigning guides to her (more to prevent her from blundering than to ensure her safety, she said), but after about a week, Minerva had got impatient with that, too, and held that it was high time she started getting around by herself. (She had a feeling that this sentiment was shared by her guides.) The day she took the ferry to the nearest town, did some shopping at a market, held little chats here and there with the vendors -- in French, no less! --, and arrived back home somewhat damp but otherwise in prime condition, qualified for nothing quite short of Minerva's proudest moment of the year.

Each day, when the sun had climbed too high for comfort, she took a nap, and afterwards she read a little (or rather, sat under a tree with a book watching people), or worked on a translation she had brought with her. Or she wrote letters to Poppy. After all, Poppy, that meddling, mothering busibody of a best friend, was the reason she'd come here. "Nothing better when you're overworked than a place with no Floo, no newspapers, and a few new impressions," she'd said. Once again, she had been exasperatingly right, and Minerva thanked her with almost-daily accounts. Of course, being Minerva, she expressed her delight and gratitude with reports of deplorable food, zoological traffic obstacles, and the utter ineptitude of the _Marmis scolaris Scotiae_ for life in the tropics. But then, everything else would probably have worried Poppy sick.

And evenings, after dinner, were mostly spent on Hermione's terrace, sipping on gillywater or tea and talking people and politics, daily life and world affairs, spiced up with the occasional foray into magical theory and the lives of working women in times of change.

Bit by bit, Minerva and Hermione had come to discover that their careers had taken surprisingly similar turns. Or perhaps not so surprisingly after all, Minerva thought one night as she walked back to her cottage, about a week and a half into her stay. Both of them had made it into powerful positions after the war ("Isn't it strange how when the mess has got so bad it's impossible to sort out, women can suddenly get promoted to high office?"), and both had been determined to use their powers for the betterment of the community. Granted, Minerva had been the more conservative one of them -- but then, in terms of progressiveness it was hard to match Hermione's project for a comprehensive antidiscrimination legislation that included magical beings, family law, and all sorts of gender issues, some of which Minerva had never even heard of. But even Minerva, with her tentative plans for slow and gradual reform of the House system, had encountered her share of resistance. While she had had trouble with both those who thought she moved too slowly and those who thought she shouldn't move at all, Hermione had been under fierce attack from a sizeable and influential group of veterans who claimed that they hadn't fought a war against pureblood tyranny to be subjected to a dictatorship of political correctness.

Now, Minerva didn't share confidences easily, least of all with people she still very vividly remembered as round-faced, big-eyed tots standing awestruck in front of her as they awaited their Sorting. She'd never been the type, and opening up to strangers wasn't exactly a habit one developed as part of a secret society, or as a boarding school teacher who was constantly under the scrutiny of pupils or parents -- or as the female lover of a high-ranking also-female Ministry official, for that matter. And thus, at first, Minerva had merely volunteered a few tidbits of experience here or there as she listened to Hermione's story. After all, it could be helpful for a young woman to know that she wasn't alone in having tired herself out trying to do what was right against fierce opposition, been passed over for promotions due to political reasons, or felt left in the lurch by her boss.

Little by little, however, Minerva had begun to feel that she was getting something out of those conversations herself. Hermione might be much younger, but the views that she held and the sense that she made of the world weren't uninteresting, no matter how young she was. It could offer one some rather new perspectives at times.

And so, as the nights on the terrace progressed, Minerva gradually found herself granting more and more glimpses of her life. Of her uneasy relationship with Albus Dumbledore, for example, and the debates she had had with herself about whether unconditional subordination was an acceptable price to ask in exchange for protection. Of her time with Rolanda, both during the Grindelwald war and afterwards. And, finally, one night, when they'd been talking about possibilities for a working woman to find love and partnership, of the happiness that Minerva had found with Amelia Bones. Now, this especially wasn't something she readily shared; their relationship had been private, and even after Amelia's death Minerva hadn't often spoken about just how deep their friendship had been, except to a few close friends.

But then, perhaps there was something about those sweltering nights, with the sounds of the forest and the light of the candles and the scent of flowers, that had an effect on her privacy wards.

Minerva sidestepped a chamber choir of frogs on a nocturnal parade as she turned into the path that led to her quarters. Amelia. Champion of the Righteous Way. Believer in the primacy of the law, and Albus Dumbledore's fiercest critic. Minerva couldn't count the evenings they had spent in hot debate of political versus moral legitimation ("What do you mean, _versus_?"), or the advantage of being able to act _fast_ versus the disadvantage of being able to act _rashly_. Agreement, for them, had always been a question of degrees. Love and respect had not.

They had had nineteen wonderful years like that. Both had loved Rosmerta's cooking and the National Theatre, and the look of calf-length Muggle skirts on the other. Both had needed their space and been willing to give it, too. With Amelia, Minerva had come closer to a happily ever after than she'd ever thought possible, had found happiness with someone as like her in situation, character, and inclinations (if not political ones) as she had ever met. And after Amelia had been taken from her, she had found that she'd never once felt the desire to look for what only could be a second best from now on.

Of course, it wasn't as if Minerva had never craved company again. Not a relationship, not really, not one with plans for growing old together at least, or, Heaven forbid, a _domestic_ one. But perhaps some tender friendship, with a little touching in addition to a meeting of minds, and perhaps, perhaps, the possibility of some slow and gentle lovemaking on occasions. The kind that didn't rush to an end, didn't rush _her_ , most of all, because that had never been who she was, and certainly not since she'd begun to feel some of the effects of age. However, one had to face it: there weren't many likely candidates. Few and far between were the available female nonagenarians with a desire for independence and their own sex, and with a few non-negotiable qualities such as a strong will and some intellect, and the ambition to do the good thing, whatever that was.

But then, there were other kinds of company. She had her friends, had Poppy and Wilhelmina, and Filius for the occasional game of chess and some philosophy. And now, here, she had evenings on a terrace in animated conversation with a young and rather handsome woman who pronounced the words "Intelligent Magical Beings Empowerment Act" with a sparkle in her eye worthy of Amelia Bones.

Well, one could certainly do worse for company if one was Minerva McGonagall.

Not to mention that Minerva liked a bit of bravado, and trading the safety of a Ministry job for a poorly-paid life among flying tiger prawns -- well, what qualified for bravado if not that?

Smiling, Minerva opened the door to her quarters, stepped inside, and lit the reading lamp by the bed.

Beautiful hands, too.

And a way of being just a little endearingly exasperating at times, with her strong will and her sharp intellect and her ambition to do the good thing, whatever that was.

Well, Minerva thought as she slipped into a clean chemise and under the thin cotton bedsheet.

Hermione was young. Too young. But that didn't have to stop one enjoying her conversation just a little more than one's usual political debate, did it? In all propriety and respectability, of course. The pleasure of a good-looking woman's intelligent conversation, after all, came in many shapes.

And on this thought, Minerva switched off the light.

*

One Sunday morning, Hermione arrived at Minerva's cottage with an announcement.

"Today you're going to learn how to paddle a canoe."

"I'm going to learn _what_?"

"Paddle a canoe. After you did so splendidly with the ferry the other day, I thought you might like to go a little further and explore another means of transport. Come along. The water's fine."

Minerva had words of protest on her lips, but then she thought twice. Who knew, it might be enjoyable. And, well, if it turned out to be a disaster, then at least it would make for a good letter to Poppy.

Thus, she changed into something mud-coloured, just by way of a precaution, stepped up the skin protection charms, and followed Hermione to the pier.

A dug-out canoe lay there fastened to a post. It was perhaps twelve feet long ("I got you a small one for a start") and had one paddle and a five-foot pole. Hermione pulled it closer to the shore, then they waded through the shallow water, and Hermione held the canoe in place as Minerva -- with some luck and a quietly-muttered steadying charm -- mounted the thing. Hermione jumped in at the tail-end and reached for the pole.

"I'll just steer us out of eyeshot of any potential locals," she said as she staked the pole into the mud to propel the canoe out into the open water. "I never heard the end of it after my first attempt."

"Why, what happened?"

"Oh, never mind that now." Hermione exchanged the pole for the paddle, and Minerva found that she had heard more reassuring words in her life. "Watch me. Even strokes, pull the paddle straight, then make a sideways stroke like this to prevent the canoe from going in circles. Like so." Hermione paddled them around an overgrown tongue of land, at considerable pace, Minerva noticed, and towards a beach. "Think you can do it?" she asked, handing Minerva the paddle.

Minerva tried, and indeed, the canoe did move. Quite suddenly, in fact, only not exactly forward, so that before they knew it they found themselves half-way up the river bank, bow in air.

"Sorry," Minerva said, and pointed her wand at the shore to push the boat back into the river.

"Not bad," Hermione said, "but you'll have to do better. I managed to overturn the thing after a mere five strokes."

Minerva tried again. The second time, she managed quite nicely to paddle more or less straight for a stretch before landing them in the shrubs, but the third attempt was stopped radically short by a rock in the shallow water. Hermione un-jammed them with her wand and got them waterborne again.

"May I show you?" she asked. She balanced towards the rear of the boat -- "Steady ..." -- put her hands on Minerva's shoulder to climb past her without losing her balance, and knelt down. Minerva noticed a scent of sunshine and a little white musk when she felt two arms encircling her and reaching for the paddle. "There," Hermione said, closing her fingers around Minerva's. "In, back, turn, out. In, back, turn, out." Yes, indeed, it worked quite nicely like that. "In, back, turn ... oops!"

A tree had appeared in front of them -- one of those horizontal affairs that grew closely above the river. Hermione staked the paddle into the water to brake, but it seemed that she had been a little too jerky with it, or they had put their respective weights into incompatible positions, or perhaps Hermione should simply have done the exercise kneeling down instead of standing up -- in any case, the next thing Minerva heard was "AAAAAHHHH!", and the next thing she _saw_ was Hermione in the river, drenched, muddy, laughing.

"Wait!" Minerva said, and "NO!" Hermione shouted when Minerva leaned forward to extend a hand to her now-wet hostess.

Too late.

There was a splash, and the next instant, Minerva had joined Hermione in the shallow, brownish water. To add insult to immersion, a considerable wave had descended upon her, making her fear the worst for her bun. When she turned to see where the unexpected load of water had come from, she saw their canoe at a distance, merrily floating down the river, upside-down and with the paddle nowhere in sight.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry!" Minerva took her wand and pointed it at the boat, which instantly reversed its course.

Hermione laughed. "Well, Minerva McGonagall, I suppose you can call this your bush baptism."

"My what?" Minerva looked up, a hand on the canoe that was now back by her side. She had no idea how to turn it over; wet wands didn't do for advanced spellwork, and the thing was very heavy, but at least they had it back.

"Your bush baptism. Rule number one up here: nobody leaves this place without taking a dunk at some point. It's practically a natural law."

" _I beg your pardon_?" Minerva lowered her spectacles and shot Hermione a piercing glance. "Hermione Granger, are you saying that you _contrived_ to get me into this situation?"

" Minerva!" Hermione exclaimed, her hand darting to her heart. "Would I do that?"

Minerva erected herself to her full height. "This, young lady," she clipped, "deserves punishment." She drew her wand, slashed it diagonally through the air, stopping sharp a few inches above the water. A jet of water sliced itself off from the surface and descended upon Hermione's head.

"Eeeeee! Not fair!" Hermione shouted. "When I'm only trying to give you a valuable holiday experience!" She drew her own wand, brandished it vertically at the water, and sent a well-placed lateral wave at Minerva.

Instants later, a rising tide lifted Hermione off her feet and dropped her back onto the water surface, whereupon a grapefruit-sized waterball narrowly missed Minerva (who had ducked in time and retaliated with a series of jets.) After a few rounds of this, however, they realised that they were again one important accessory short.

"The boat!"

"Damn!" Hermione said. "Well, it's not far. Can you swim?"

"I am a witch, Hermione. I float."

"Perfect," Hermione said. They took a dive and went for the canoe. Luckily, the current wasn't strong during this time of year, and so they soon caught up with it. Getting a hold of it and scrambling on top proved a little difficult and involved some spluttering and swearing (and a little magic, on Minerva's part), but they managed, and then they leisurely propelled it back to the shore with the help of paddling feet.

When they were both back on the beach, taking stock of their respective degrees of muddiness and wetness and general dishevelledness, Hermione began to laugh. "You look like a true explorer," she said and reached for one of the towels they had deposited by the pier. "Tell me -- do you feel a bit like one, too?" she added with a smile.

Well, Minerva thought, if this was how Mr Stanley had felt when he found Mr Livingstone, it was no wonder he couldn't find anything intelligent to say. Her wet skirt flapped heavily around her legs, and her blouse stuck to her body, making her glad she had changed out of the white one.

"Never have I felt less adventurous than at this very moment," she said. But she didn't make much of an effort to conceal the twitching of her lips.

Still smiling, Hermione approached, wiped a strand of wet hair from Minerva's forehead and tucked it behind her ear. Whether it was her hand or just the imagination of it that brushed Minerva's jawbone as she withdrew it, Minerva couldn't tell.

"I'll make it up to you after dinner."

*

Minerva perched above a scroll and a pile of virginal parchments, the dictionary by her side and the grammar within easy reach. She dipped her quill into the inkpot -- she didn't hold with the self-inking ones; she was old-fashioned that way.

It couldn't have been, could it?

Her gaze trailed out of the window. The shutters were open; this side of the house lay in the shadow now, and she'd decided that some natural light was worth a bit of heat.

It couldn't have been that Hermione was _flirting_ with her?

Please. Minerva was an old woman, and hardly an attractive catch for a young one whose life was so different from that of a retired schoolteacher in the Highlands who found little time for anything apart from her work on the Hogwarts Board, and the articles she wrote and presentations she gave, the conferences and symposia she went to, and her translation of the correspondence of Boudicca the Breastplated and Litavis the Lovely.

Or was she?

No, and that was the end of it.

That gesture could have meant anything. Morgana's heart, didn't Minerva know all too well that affection could have many faces? Hadn't she tucked many strands behind ears herself, written notes, shared gazes and smiles, perhaps with a bit of tingling in her stomach? Yes, she had. All of that, and more, in her school years.Yet there had never been more to it, never even the _idea_ that there could be more -- well, at least until Rolanda had showed her that night, in a snowed-in, icy cottage in the Swiss mountains where there had been nothing for them to do but stay warm and keep quiet.

Besides, Minerva knew a thing or two about what it was like between teachers and their pupils. She'd had crushes, notably on Professor Merrythought, and been on the receiving end of her share of them, too. And to be very sincere, it wasn't as if she didn't know how to motivate a girl to give her best and make the most of her brains, when she had that starry look in her face. A bit of benign aloofness, with well-dosed praise and sometimes a hand on a shoulder if one could be certain it would do no harm. Heavens, it had been done by teachers and enjoyed by pupils from Mytilini to Moorehead Towers, and there had never been more to it apart from a little, well, pleasant ritual, she supposed she might call it.

Then again, Hermione hardly was a schoolgirl now, was she?

The quill had dried up again, and Minerva let sink into her lap. No, Hermione very much wasn't a schoolgirl now. In fact, she had grown more womanly, more handsome, too, than Minerva had ever expected her to. Rounder, softer, with the clearly-defined face of an adult yet without the marks of strain that so often accompanied them, and with eyes that had seen their share of things yet hadn't stopped searching.

But was she even the type?

Could Poppy have been right _again_?

Minerva had laughed when Poppy had suggested the possibility. "Oh, Poppy," she'd said, "you're seeing elves by the light of the day. Of course a woman with a brain is an ill fit for Ron Weasley of all men, but that doesn't mean she's not interested in _any_ of them."

" _Please_ , Minerva," Poppy had said. "Who said anything about 'any of them?' -- even though I admit that a decade spent with Ron Weasley should probably be enough to get every woman off ... never mind. No, I merely say that the way she talked with the other speakers at the Women In Office Conference suggests that she sees the erotic and emotional potential of those of her own sex. Or the older ones, at least. Some are like that, you know ..."

"Oh, be serious, Poppy," Minerva had said. "You've been saying that the girl has potential ever since she first set foot in the library, back at Hogwarts. And have events proved you right at the Yule Ball? During the Order years? After the Battle?"

"Just you wait, Minerva McGonagall," had been Poppy's answer. "Just you wait. Meanwhile, what about that little suggestion of mine that you ease up that workload of yours and start relaxing a little more again? You've been rather sharp these past weeks ..."

Well, Minerva thought. She dipped her quill into the inkpot and embarked on a second attempt at putting words on parchment. While it was perhaps -- _perhaps_ \-- true that Poppy was right, that still didn't explain what Hermione could possibly have in mind with an ageing, bony teacher who was traipsing through the bush like a mudfish out of water, or better, a retired schoolmarm _in_ the water, other than to wipe a stray strand of hair out of her face with an affectionate and probably a little compassionate gesture.

Granted, Hermione might have made fleeting remarks about how she'd never be one for traditional relationships again, and about the difficulties she had always had with most people her own age. She might have brushed Minerva's arm as if by accident or casually touched her shoulders or her back more and more often of late, when she sat down next to her at dinner or got up from breakfast or stopped to show her something --

Ah, but wasn't it now _she_ , Minerva, who was seeing elves by the light of the day, out of the wishful thinking of an ageing woman who hadn't been touched in a while?

Minerva shook her head at her own silliness and proceeded to dedicate her attention to Boudicca the Breastplated.

*

All the greater was Minerva's surprise when that night on the terrace, under a clear, moonlit sky, she found herself with her arms around Hermione's waist, and soft lips tasting of sunbalm and a hint of Pinot noir on her own.

They had enjoyed their usual after-dinner talk and recap of the day -- "debriefing", they had come to call it, and like increasingly often of late, Minerva had stayed on for a bit after all the day's topics had been dealt with. Night had descended over Doualéné, and they had come to enjoy sharing the moment when the forest rose to its nocturnal life.

Hermione had brought out a bottle of red wine -- a rare treat sent from home -- and they were sipping on it quietly until at one point, Hermione set down the glass and got up from her seat. She walked up to the parapet, looked at the river, her hands absently fondling the Liberian coffee flowers that grew in a pot on the railing. Then she turned around and slowly circled Minerva's chair.

Minerva couldn't bring herself to object when two hands laid themselves on her shoulders and two thumbs gently began massaging a spot that had become tense from the paddling. They took their time, the hands, and when the tension had quite seeped away, they just stayed there.

Stayed there for a long, long while.

"You know what it is that I'm asking you, don't you?" Hermione asked.

Minerva did not answer immediately, instead twirling the half-full glass in her lap.

"I'm not quite sure," she said quietly, her eyes fixating the Liberian coffee for a while before she continued. "I should hate to misinterpret."

They fell silent again. Neither of them moved, and the sensation of Hermione's hands on her shoulders, little by little, sent a curious calm down Minerva's body. Somehow, the feeling reminded her of that first day, when she had lain on the bed, beginning to sense that the place was ready to welcome her, to make her a part of itself and itself one of her. She only had to allow it, be willing to be surprised, and to let the encounter happen on its own terms.

Without overburdening it with fears or expectations.

It had worked for the ferry trip to the town market.

Slowly, Minerva set down the glass.

She got up from her chair and took Hermione's hands that had glided down her back as she'd risen.

She took one last look at Hermione's eyes. One had to be willing to be surprised, but that didn't mean that one had to be foolhardy.

She saw no resistance, no bewilderment or amusement at the hazy gaze of an ageing, old-fashioned woman who had involuntarily spent a goodly part of the afternoon fully clothed in muddy waters. Rather, she saw warmth and a smile, and perhaps a bit of longing, even, though she wasn't quite sure. And thus, without fears or expectations, she gently lifted Hermione's hands, bowed her head, and carefully touched the warm, tanned skin with her lips.

When she looked up again, she felt one of those same hands on her cheek, gently inviting her closer, and then two arms slinging themselves around her neck, soft curves touching her body, and at last, a pair of lips.

*

"Will you come inside with me?" Hermione whispered as she loosened the embrace.

Minerva let her arms sink, a wan smile in her face.

"Hermione ..." Minerva murmured. "Are you quite certain of this? I'm old. You'd find that ... "

"I take this to be the usual protestations in conversations such as these," Hermione said with a smile. "The question is: do you want it? I'm not going to ask more than you're willing to give, neither now nor at any other time, but I think I've made my meaning plain, and all I want to know is: do you want this, and do you want it _now_?"

Did she want this, and did she want it _now_? Oh, Merlin, did Phineas Nigellus wear a funny beard?

"Yes," Minerva said.

*

Poppy Pomfrey had been reading by the light of the old Tiffany lamp when she suddenly experienced a myoclonic reflex, commonly known as hiccup.

She closed her book and wondered. She hadn't drunk anything cold, and no spirits, either. Dinner had been two hours ago.

_Hiccup._

She shook her head and opened her book again, trying to hold her breath to make it go away.

A page. Two pages.

_Hiccup._

She let the book sink again, trying not to think of it.

And failing.

Funny thing, hiccups. Hadn't her grandmother collected all sorts of superstitions associated with them? Bad luck was one. Well, Poppy didn't believe in negativity; it only gave one stomach ulcers. "Someone's thinking of you," was another. Continental, that one, if she remembered correctly. Of course someone was; that someone was currently in the kitchen making them tea. The third one was interesting, but Poppy had no idea where her grandmother had got it from; she'd never found a source for it. "Something you wished for has come true."

Ach, these things always happened, didn't they? After all, one was a retired nurse and ran a volunteer rent-a-gran agency and a free clinic for homeless Muggles and Wizards. Naturally something came out of it on occasions.

Her eyes fell on a stack of letters on the secretary desk. A set of envelopes with colourful stamps and the red and blue rim of the International Magical Postal Service.

Poppy frowned and cocked her head. Could it be ... ?

Her face broke into a mischievous smile.

Well, well, she thought, wouldn't that be something if it were?

She got up as she heard footsteps and the rattling of the teapot in the corridor.

"Come and kiss me," she said when Wilhelmina came in with the tea tray.

***


End file.
